THE THINGIST

WINTER WORK II

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 16 Jan 2024 14:37:00 -0800

WINTER WORK

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 16 Jan 2024 14:22:00 -0800

STAYING COOL

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 13:29:00 -0700

When the thermometer hits 95F it is sensible to retreat to a relatively cool place with a good book and a tall glass of icy lemonade. The coolest place near my house is a creeks that crisscrosses the village, through alleys, side by side with thoroughfares and a a few rare instances, underneath dwellings built a couple of centuries ago. In my neighbourhood, it flows beneath beautifully sculpted limestone cliffs my to merge with the Potomac river. Along the way, the altitude of cliffs drop dramatically causing the creek to cascade, musically onto the flatter terrain. I think of the music of the waterfall as the voice of the village. In pre-Colombian days, it sang for Delaware warriors and their families. Later,in the Colonial Era, it accompanied the songs of European immigrants as they worked in any of the seventeen mills that made the village prosper. Today, after having been diverted so many times no one knows exactly what was its original course, it can barely be heard above the roar of traffic headed across the river, towards town with shopping malls and supermarkets. It is only at night, when all grows quiet, that it lifts its liquid lullaby rises above the occasional chatter of the owls and the rasping cough of foxes that live in our rapidly vanishing woods.

I have a deep emotional attachment to this village. For better or for worse, it has sheltered me for decades. I am passionately fond of the log house where I have been living for a quarter of a century and where I have struggled to make a garden on land that was once a grazing meadow for the village founder's cattle. A century later, it became the place where local people dumped their rubbish and very interesting rubbish it was. Often, when I dig in the garden after a rain, I come upon rose headed nails, fragments of Flow Blue dishes, slip ware, clay marbles and hand blown glass. I dream up dozens of stories about the people who owned the dishes, these glasses, these toys. Perhaps it was the gun maker who owned the fancy imported dishes. I see him at the head of the table, jovial and rubicund carving up a haunch of venison for his good friend, the owner of the grist mill. His apple cheeked play with the very clay marbles I hold in my hand. Meanwhile, his frail German bride, who suffers from a weak chest, delicately sips a tincture of sassafras this lavender glass bottle once held.In the kitchen, an indentured servant cries because she dropped the the redware platter she bought at the fair earlier in the day against the day when the shoemaker's apprentice will make her his wife. Now the platter lies in a dozen pieces among the roots of lilacs and rosebushes.

Broiling hot weather is a time to dream of other villagers who dipped their toes in this very creek that meanders behind my house. How did those who had no leisure endure the brutal heat? How did they plant, harvest, grind the wheat, bake bread? Perhaps they lived in thick walled houses such as mine where the temperature stays tolerable unless one opens the front door frequently. Perhaps they were hardier than I. They must have dreamt of coolness, all the same, of time spent in British glades or German forests, of icy streams and vast bowls of wine flavored with woodruff. As for me, I avoid exertion, read for hours and listen for the song of the waterfall.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 2 Jun 2012 16:56:00 -0700

Red-spotted purple butterfly.

Painted lady butterfly on Hesperis matronalis.

Cabbage white butterfly

Butterfly feeding station.

A red-spotted purple butterfly lay on the front step as I opened the door for the first time today. Its teal speckled black dark blue wings--inexplicable hues for one so colorfully named--shimmered in the sunlight. It remained nearly motionless long enough for me to grab one of the cameras I keep by the door.That was the moment my cat chosesto dart out of the house as the proverbial bat from hell. The butterfly took off, paused briefly by one of the rose bushes and flew away. I saw it once again a couple of hours later and again it vanished, leaving me with a number of unanswered questions--why hadn't I seen it in previous years? Why did it choose this spot ? Had I planted something new this year, something it found attractive? What did it eat? What could I do to make sure that it comes back?

Mine is not, strictly speaking, a butterfly garden. I plant with the wildlife in mind, but I do not single out a particular species.Trees in sadly depleted woods, surround my house, which nestles in a wedge of land between creek and river. My twenty-five years old garden is new, by local standards. My village, Tater Hollow, is a couple of centuries old. Last year, I lost a number of trees and perennials due a misguided project initiate by the local government, which is remarkably obtuse when it comes to the ecology of my neighborhood. I have only just begun to replant. Earlier in the season, I added fifty-one trees, a dozen rose bushes and many perennials to my half-acre lot. It will grow, or not, without the benefit of pesticides. Birds and butterflies respond to such environments, though it bears no resemblance to the neat and prim outdoor spaces featured in shelter magazines.

Many years ago i started a flower border border by my front door. Today it is a tangle of vinca gone out of control, several Heirloom rose bushes, hollyhocks, lilies, peonies, blue salvia and other deer-resistant perennials. A row of pots filled with miniature roses, columbines, lilies, dwarf buddleia, hosta and Casablanca lilies flanks the walkway. Beyond that, the grass, which foamed with white clover blossoms three days ago, has been be tidied into into a green, flowerless space. According to information gleaned from several websites, adult red-spotted purples do like flowers, but their preferred food is overripe fruit. That explains why this is the first time in twenty five years that I have seen this butterfly in my garden. Early spring, I prepared a butterfly feeding station with water, salt and overripe fruit. I expected to see the usual cabbage whites, monarchs, sulfurs and zebra swallowtails. Until this morning, cabbages whites had been ubiquitous and monarchs elusive. In May, when the sweet rocket, Hesperis matronalis was in bloom, a painted lady butterfly came by. Neither monarchs and swallowtails joined the winged host. Then, literally out of the blue, this jewel appeared on my doorstep, attracted , perhaps by the overripe mango I had set out at the feeding station. I know of no greater reward for such a small effort.

AGE CANNOT STALE HER?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 4 Mar 2012 12:38:00 -0800

26 May 2012

SORRY FOLKS, THE THINGIST WAS NOT A GOOD FIT. I HAVE MOVE TO www.ofgraceandflavor.blogspot.com Please met there. Thank you.

There are some expression that enter the language in order reduce an entire group of people to nonentities. Granny pants is one of them. Inoffensive as it seems, it is meant to garner laughs at the expense of older women. The subtext is that women who have viable eggs are ridiculous. The irony of viable eggs as the supreme marker of attractiveness, charm, with, competence, and the ability to contribute to the socio-economic complex, is stunning. This standard a dichotomy between women such as Lindsay Lohan and Kim Kardashian and Meryl Streep, Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, Gloria Steinem, Hillary Clinton, Ruth Ginsburg. That is, between women who do not qualify chronologically for granny pants, and women who do. One can subdivide them into endless categories just as one can simply say that some of them are old enough to wear granny pants and that the others, if they are lucky enough, will grow old enough to do so. Whichever way one looks at it, they are, irreducibly female.
Sexism and ageism often seem to be both sides of the same coin. They show how much easier it is to see lump people into categories that rob them of their individuality. If I understand this failed jest correctly, women who wear granny pants also sit in rocking chairs crocheting granny squares or staring vacantly into space until such a time as when
they are called to meet their maker.Just how close to reality is the image of the crocheting granny? I If one takes into consideration the gender-pay gap in United State where women's earnings are 77.4 percent of men's--these are 2010 figures--chances are that only a small number of women past childbearing age are to busy trying to survive to indulge in infinite leisure. The popular perception is a distortion based on age-gender bias. It accounts for the popular notion that older men look distinguished while older women look extinguished. Again, maybe this perception seems to be linked to sexuality. Most elderly man can father a child, most older woman, cannot. If worth is reduced to the ability to reproduce, what of the men women who are unable to do so? To equate human worth with the viability to the viability of eggs and sperm is as intelligent as saying that rabbits are superior to elephants.
I find it utterly discouraging to think of humanity as nothing but a blob rushing to reproduce, but that is the message I get from labels meant to diminish older women. What is the explanation for the pervasiveness of age-gender stereotypes in a so-called civilised nation? What are parents teaching their children, that grandma is a doddering old fool in funny pants? How do families who would not countenance racist jokes allow their offspring to think of older women as objects of derision? I wish I knew the answer to these questions as much as I wish I knew what sort of underpants Streep, Morrison, Angelou, Ginsburg, Steinem and Clinton wear. I just turned sixty five and I would like a similar pair.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 14:04:00 -0800

Flower vase gets a new look with rubber bands and silver spray paint.

Tin upcycled with spray paint and water slide sticker can be used as a flower or plant container.

Button stamp fail.

A simpler way to reuse wine cork is to make them into plant markers.

In theory, making a stamp from a wine cork and a button, is a simple

way to upcycle corks and save money. It probably works if the button used has a carved surface that allows stamp ink to adhere to it. My own experiment with this was a failure, as the photo above shows. I glued a heart-shaped button to a champagne cork and once the glue dried, I inked the button and applied it to paper. Since the surface of the button was too slick to collect ink. The image did not transfer t the paper. I might try again with a different type of button, but I find that wine corks work better as the plant marker shown above.

Spray painting a homely glass vase with Rustoleum Silver Bright was a more successful venture. I wrapped four rubber bands around the vase in order to mask the areas I wanted to leave unpainted. I think this turned out well and it is a good match for my mercury glass candlesticks.

I have posted photos of repurposed, painted tins before, but for my latest project I used a water slide sticker of heirloom roses. I will use the tin as a planter. I might attach to the tin a wire handle that will make it easy to to hang it well above the seven feet vertical space the deer in the resident herd can reach.

FOR THE HOME OFFICE

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 12:14:00 -0800

Chalkboard before it was repainted to correct flaws on the edges.The other side, seen below, was covered with thrifted wallpaper. The frame was trimmed with velvet and silk ribbons.

Acrylic stones glued to clear pins.

HEART DAY PROJECTS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 9 Feb 2012 11:56:00 -0800

These are these are the latest sachets with embroidered felt and lavender. All the embroidery is done freehand with obvious asymmetry.

REUSE, USE UP, MAKE DO

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 9 Feb 2012 04:00:00 -0800

For all their good intentions, upcyclists can enlarge their footprint in the process of repurposing an object normally consigned to to the trash bin. Take my plan to reuse tomato tins, for example. I can cover them in fabric, which is biodegradable, but which must be treated in order to remain clean. That seems to be, ecologically, the lesser of evils. Then there is spray painting, which releases fluorocarbons into the atmophere and leaves leaves behind an unusable container. It is with that in mind that I will not repeat this project once I use up the blue and green chalkboard spray paint I purchased. I have found a recipe for homemade chalkboard paint and that is what I will use next time along with I will buy paint packaged in a reusable container. For the moment, this is what I am doing with the material on hand.

Repurposed cookie tins.

Upcycled tomato tins.

NOte: I am having trouble with Blogger's editing function. The text was not meant to be in caps, but after having had an entry disappear twice, this will have to do. Sorry.

EVERY DAY IS VALENTINE'S DAY II

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 4 Feb 2012 16:18:00 -0800

Left--Envelope with stamped and hand tinted image pasted on paper doily layered over yellow paint chip.

Right--Card made with stamped and hand tinted image of tea pot pasted on cupcake wrapper.

A used manila envelope cut into fourths and layered with cupcake wrapper and lacy paper doily

makes great mailers for garden seeds and small trinkets.

Valentine card and envelope made with paint chips, stamped image and paper doily.

An unexpected snowfall calls for a well provided wood box, a pot of soup, a loaf of crisp bread. I had the latter on hand, after a productive day in the kitchen. The latter required a trip to the wood pile where my invaluable wood guy had left me a cord of seasoned cherry logs. That is when I found out that my efficient Scandinavian wood latest batch of Valentines I intend to send to distant friends early next week.
The first Valentine I made this year was a sachet filled with lavender from my garden. I designed it for someone whose vision and seriously impaired , which is why it was important to place texture and fragrance above elements with great visual appeal. I created a little felt heart embroidered with French knots, clear seed beads and a cotton fabric applique that combines a satisfyingly tactile quality and the rich scent of lavender blossom. This was such fun to make that I decided to add a similar sachet to the cards I am sending out.

I like all Valentines though I deplore the commercialization of the holiday. Rather than buying mass produced cards I prefer to make my own. I use card stock base layered with stamped, hand tinted images, paint chips, paper doilies, cupcake wrappers and recycled paint chips, lunaria (money plant) discs from my garden and candy wrappers. am particularly happy with the You Are My Cup of Tea cards shown in today and yesterday's posts. I am equally happy with my oatmeal variation on the cast iron bread recipe from Kinfolks Magazine I read about in Alice Paulson's blog

Oat bread baked in cast iron Dutch oven.

Chicken soup with egg noodles.

Orange curd--4 eggs beaten with half a cup of sugar, half a teaspoon cinnamon, half a teaspoon vanilla, three quarters of a cup of orange juice. Cook at medium temperature for approximately ten minutes or until it begins to thicken.

Homemade hot chocolate mix.

EVERY DAY IS VALENTINE'S DAY--I

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 3 Feb 2012 18:29:00 -0800

Envelope embellished with doily, stamped French script and printed hand coloured clip art.

My Cup of Tea card.

Bookmark made with origami paper and recycled envelope.

Above: Envelope embellished with paper doily, lunaria and glue on crystal.
Below: Card made with origami paper hearts and hand tinted stamped image and tiny fan made from recycled gold chocolate wrapper.

Card and envelope made with paper doilies and stamped images.

Handmade mini notebook covered in burlap and decorated with plastic snowflake button and felt heart.

Mini notebook has endpapers made with from origami print.

Material used to make bookmark and matchbook.

These are some of my Valentine's Day projects.More at the EVERYTHING PAPYREAN page.

UPCYCLING

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 15:00:00 -0800

Beer bottle caps made into pins and magnets.

Fabric covered tomato tomato tins.

Most of us want to keep the landfills in our communities from reaching capacity. Wherever and whenever possible, we recycle paper, glass and metal objects. Some of us go beyond mere recycling to reinvent objects First World citizens once threw away. We do what people of conscience have always done out of the conviction that to be wasteful is immoral and impractical. We follow a tradition that inspired quilters to make useful visually enchanting bedding out of old clothing--the same tradition that led women who lived through the Depression to make beautiful dresses and linens out of feedsacks.
My own contribution to the upcycling movement is minor. It includes turning food tins into receptacles for pencils, pens, sewing implements, small gadgets, plants . I use either paint, fabric or paper to cover the tins. The result can be pleasant.

I cannot say that I find my first attempt at making pins and magnets out of beer bottle caps was either pleasant nor admirable. Judge for yourself. I find the process fiddly and the result mediocre. Perhaps it is a question of persisting with the craft until I get better at it. Right now have supposedly upsycled Stella Artois bottle caps I tortured with tin snips and a ball peen hammer before I gussied them up with a French stamp, printed Redoute roses and glitter glue. The world was just fine without them.

RULE LEMON CURD

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 15:28:00 -0800

Mosaic

on the wall of a 6th.century synagogue in the southern Negev, Israel, shows

two etrogim (yellow citron) at the base of a menorah.

Nephrite Budda's Hand lemon, Ming Dinasty,

Let Proust have his madeleines. When I want a treat that evokes sunshine, secluded beaches, a green sea dotted with multicoloured sails, I will take lemon curd. Deliciously tart, versatile, and easy to prepare, this ambrosial concoction probably originated in Elizabethan England. It is not difficult for me to imagine great batches of it bubbling away in the very kitchen of the Virgin Queen. She was, after all, a lover of preserves and dulcets.
One does not have to be royal in order to indulge in lemon curd. Sugar is no longer the luxury it was in the 16th. century and neither are lemons. The latter are abundant and fairly inexpensive at this time the year. One can choose less common varieties of lemon as the main ingredient for curd-- Meyer ons, hand of Buddha or the yellow lemon Israels call etrog. I suspect that yuzu would also work. I will lnow come autumn, if a neighbour decides to ell some of her harvest. Meantime I go with what is available at the local supermarket--Lisbon lemons, I believe. I wash them thoroughly, remove enough zest to fill a tablespoon, squeeze enough--six or seven, depending on size-- to get three quarters of a cup of juice, add eggs, butter and sugar and cook in an enamelled pot at medium heat for six minutes. That's it. The recipe yields twelve ounces of curd that can be used as filling for cookies, as a spread for scones, toast, biscotti. Heck, it is good enough to hold together two Proustian madeleines.

PERFECT LEMON CURD
Tawny at www.allrecipes.com

3/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
3/4 cup sugar
3 eggs
1/2 cup unsalted butter, cubed

Directions

In a 2 quart saucepan, combine lemon juice, lemon zest, sugar, eggs, and butter. Cook over medium-low heat until thick enough to hold marks from whisk, and first bubble appears on surface, about 6 minutes.

AGATHA CHRISTIE'S LEMON

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 16:24:00 -0800

As Lemon Week winds down, with nary a lemon related craft project, Agatha Christie's Miss Lemon, Poirot's efficient secretary comes to mind. It is her destiny to play no larger role in Poirot's daily life than that of appointment keeper and fetcher of tisannes.Her greatest ambition is to come up with up with the perfect filing system. While she she waits for inspiration, her routine is only interrupted by Poirot and and his sidekick Arthur Hastings' s adventures.
I had hoped to run this blog in Miss Lemon's minimalist manner. That is, I would fetch tea and dream of the perfect filing system while talented artists and artisans discussed their work ad shared projects. It is too early in the game to know whether this is a good plan. Judging from Lemon Week, I need to to be a bit more aggressive in my search for guest bloggers. For the moment, I offer a couple of recipes for lemony delights. The first, Preserved Lemons--lemons pickled in salt-- is embarassingly simple. The glorious part only becomes apparent when one dds the results to other dishes, such as an eggplant, tomato, onion and cheese casserole.Then it packs terrific olfactory and gustory punch--think sunshine, blue skies, green seas and tropical flowers in a spoon.

PRESERVED LEMONS
6 lemons, scrubbed and seeded
1 cup of lemon juice
1 cup of kosher salt

Sterilyse a canning jar. Fill it with alternate layers of lemons and kosher. Add lemon juice. Seal jar and let it sit for a day or two, turning it upside down, occasionally. Store in the refrigerator for three weeks before using the pickled lemons. Remove pulp before use. Pickles will keep for up to six months.

Tomorrow I will post a recipe for lemon curd, which my daughter used with great success as filler for Linzer cookies and as a topping for scones.

GARNISH, GLASS AND GOETHE

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 16:07:00 -0800

What does Goethe have to do with crafts? Not much, besides a poem that expresses longing for warmth and beauty, both of which are common themes in the work of artisans. The poem in question is "Mignons Sehnsuch-- Mignon's Longing",
"Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn,

Do you know the land where the lemon-trees grow,

Im dunkeln Laub die Gold-Orangen glühn,

In darkened leaves the gold-oranges glow,

Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht,

A soft wind blows from the pure blue sky,

Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht?

The myrtle stands mute, and the bay tree high?

Kennst du es wohl?

Do you know it well?

Dahin! dahin

It’s there

Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter, ziehn.

I’d be gone,

to be there with you, O, my beloved one!"

This is what I had in mind when I made the earrings pictured above. The day was chilly and grey, and phototropic creature that I am, I needed a reminder of my native place, in northeast Brazil, where lemon trees do bloom. The beads I used were made in the mid-1900s by a gifted glassblower who must have been aided by elves, such is the sweet shimmer and the nearly evanescent quality of the fruit and leaves he created.

My work was simple. All I did was add aventurine roundels, yellow freshwater pearls and sterling silver finds to the glass beads. The result is jewelry might not be as enduring as Goethe's poetry, but I am sure that it will last through many winters.

DO LIMAO QUERO UM PEDACO

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 12:08:00 -0800

John Everett Millais

Limão nutre, cicatriza, limpa e perfuma. E me lembra sempre a evocação à deusa pomareira: Leva-me, Pomona, aos teus bosques, onde o limão e amarga lima, mais a laranja brilhando no meio do verde, misturam suas cores mais claras. Ou a poção feita com arsênico e presenteada à Rainha de Sabá pelo Rei Poeta. Para Clarice Lispector, as palavras, às vezes, são como pingar limão na ostra viva. Que palavras ela teria ouvido para formular semelhante comparação? Algum insulto velado, ao redor da Praça Maciel Pinheiro, chamada carinhosamente por seu povo de "Pletzele"? Insinuações malévolas nos meios diplomáticos onde viveu, em Nápoles, Berna, Torquay ou Washington? Jamais saberemos. Trata-se, porém de uma boa símile.

E para além da casca e do sumo, vamos pensar na parte mais suave do vegetal: as flores. É certo que não carregam a simbologia dos botões de laranjeiras ofertados aos deuses na Grécia Antiga, por ocasião dos Himeneus, mas são imaculadas, olorosas e cheia de frescor.

O fruto também me recorda as " margaritas" de Jack Kerouac ou a Lira do Amor Romântico de Carlos Drummond de Andrade, calcada na poética popular: Atirei um limão n'água/ o rio ficou vermelho/ e cada peixinho viu/meu coração num espelho. Atirei um limão n'água/como faço todo ano/ senti que os peixes diziam/ todo amor vive de engano. E ainda os poderes do óleo essencial empregado na Aromaterapia como um ativador eficaz da alegria de viver. Além do "espírito do vegetal", estudado por Paracelso, o limão por sua própria cor é fundamental para o tratamento do stress, fazendo-nos sentir um grande bem-estar ao termos contato com ele nos campos.

Enfim, ácidos ou adoçados, misturados à estonteante aguardent e (caipirinha), ou à aromática baunilha - o fruto e o verbo - reclamam o seu espaço na mesa e no texto. Maria Eleonora Castelar Vasconcelos
Here, my own, imperfect translation,

"Lemons nourish, heal and perfume.They bring to mind an invocation to Pomona, goddess of fruitfulness: Take me to your forests where the lemon and the bitter lime, plus the orange shimmering amid the green, mingle their brightest colours, Pomona. Or, the potion made with arsenic and given to the Queen of Sheba by the poet king. For (Jewish Brazilian writer) Clarice Lispector ,sometimes words are like lemon juice dripping on a live oyster. Which words would she have heard to come up with such a comparison? Was a veiled insult somewhere around the Maciel Pinheiro Square(in Recife, Brazil) which he people lovingly dubbed Pletzele? Ws it some malevolent innuendo in the diplomatic circles where she lived, in Naples, Bern, Torquay and Washington? We will ever know but it is a good simile. Besides peel and juice, let us think of flowers, the tenderest aspect of the plant. True, they are not freighted with the same symbolism that orange buds offered to the gods, in ancient Greece, at weddings, but they are immaculate, pure and full of freshness.

The fruit reminds me of Kerouac's margaritas, and of (Brazilian poet) Carlos Drummond de Andrade's "Poetic Harp", which is based on on folk poetry, “I threw a lemon into the the river/ and the water turned red/and every little fish saw my heart in a mirror./ I threw a lemon into the river,/ as I do every year/All There is yet the the essential oil used in Aromatherapy, to promote joy in life. Besides the “ vegetable spirit” that Paracelsus studied, by their very colour, lemons induce great joy in living when we come into contact with them in the fields. To sum up, tart or sweetened, added to dizzying caipirinhas or to aromatic vanilla, fruit and verb merit space in text and at the table. Maria Eleonora Castelar Vasconcelos is a retired lawyer whose prize-winning writing has appeared in many Brazilian anthologies.

CHALLENGE

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 11:30:00 -0800

This is a gentle challenge to gentle readers. Winter is so very present in my village I wish for long sunny days filled with the fragrance of yellow roses and the sweetness of homemade lemonade. What do you say we make lemons this coming week's theme? Actual lemons re not required. The literary variety, such as THE LEMON TABLE, by Julian Barnes,will do. Do you have your your own version of the old folk song? Send it to me in Audacity format or Soundcloud and I will post it here. Do you have a story, recipe, a citrus yellow hat you knitted, a dress you made, a cake you baked, a painting? How about sharing it here? There shall be a prize for the most popular contribution.

WOMEN'S WORK

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 10:42:00 -0800

A few months ago, a good friend sent me a copy of THE SABBATHDAY RIVER, by Jean Hanff Korelitz. Having glance at the back cover blurbs, I put it aside until the proper time, which only arrived last week. I will save a detailed post about the story for my book blog. However this is a good place to mention that plot and exquisite writing aside, Korelitz places her characters a very believable world where women artisan struggle for recognition and respect. "The work of women--the sewing bees and quilting circles and nights hooking rugs before the winter fires--has values," she writes. This is a topic I would like to explore with your help.

Handcrafts rarely command a fair price. Artisans of either sex find it hard to make a living from their work. But when the artisan is a woman, the public quite often categorizes what she does as hobby and hobbyists have no claim on decent wages, health insurance or paid vacations. I think that it would be interesting to discuss how society ascribes value to work, but I do not intend to write a treaty on economics, a subject in which I am vastly illiterate. Rather, I would like to know how artisans earn the right to be called workers.
In my case, the work I love is often s enjoyable I tend not take it very seriously. It is all good fun. It is just a necklace, a silly sketch, an ordinary photo. No big deal. Clients who buy my jewelry, note cards, embroidery see the value of what I do through the filter of my nonchalance. That some have come buy new products or commission new projects, disregard my attempts at self-sabotage. That I have a horror of puffed up braggarts is no excuse fr my unprofessional attitude. There is a space for me to stand between the self-proclaimed geniuses and the barely competent.How about you? How strong is your confidence in your ability? What do you think you deserve for your work? Are you a full-fledged worker or a dilettante?

PAINTED CLOUDS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 15:41:00 -0700

Sisley

Constable

Lorrain

The human heart is a place of wonder. It has room for mineral vegetable and animal life. There is ample evidence of that on the Facebook wall of writer Joseph Finder, just below the photo of a golden Labrador retriever. Finders caption for the photo was,
"Unconditional live is so rare. "
Judging from the responses he got, the consensus is that dogs can be relied upon to love unconditionally. I know from experience that such is not always the case and I have the scars to prove it. Nevertheless,healthy dogs--the Chowchow that bit me was truly dysfunctional-- people are equally of living love that " is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."
Another writer, Louanne Rice, posted about her love of cloud watching, something many of us share I proposed that we form a club. Ideally, we would fluffy lamb, that fierce dragon, that length of unravelling silk will travel. Ideally, painter Alfred Sisley would be part of that club. Many of his landscapes include fleecy clouds perhaps for that simple reason that that clouds were often present present in French skies beneath which he worked. Then again, it may be that clouds are an integral part of work of painters he admired, such as Turner and Constable . The latter, in turn, was influenced by cloud-loving Claude Lorrain.No matter. Sisley's death in 1899 might make it difficult to include him in the cloud watching club. The best I can do is look at his painting when the weather is inclement.

DOODLES

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 11:38:00 -0700

NO MERCY

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 15:41:00 -0700

I am very concerned about the mangling of Cullinson Park, in Shepherdstown, West Virginia while local Sewer and Water Services install pipes in that area. Apparently no environmental agencies are supervising this project. There seems to be Audubon, Sierra Club, National Wildlife Federation presence. I am inclined to think that the town has made no effort to minimise damage to wildlife habitat and that there were no environmental impact studies done. Way to go, EPA.
There are nests of copperhead snakes in the park. What will the destruction of their habitat mean to households adjacent to the park? Will householders welcome the displaced reptiles or will they kill them forthwith? What about the turtles--boxies and snappers. How ill they respond to their loss of habitat? As for the dozen plus types of songbirds that nest in the park, how will they be affected? It is supremely ironic that while trying to clean up the Cheasapeake Bay, the EPA facilitates the impairment of one of the last green spaces left in the Corporation of Shepherdstown.

MOVING ON

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 15:04:00 -0700

"Machiavelli recommends his Prince to make use of every

moment that his neighbour is weak, in order to attack him; as

otherwise his neighbour may do the same. If honour and fidelity

prevailed in the world, it would be a different matter; but as these

are qualities not to be expected, a man must not practise them

himself, because he will meet with a bad return." Schopenhauer

Schopenhauer and Macchiavelli's view of the world suits a great many people. Mine, is a different set of values based on the concept of Tikkun Olam.

My next garden. I'd like to see the uglies try to lay claim to it. More info at Materialicious, http://www.materialicious.com/2011/07/eco-friendly-mobile-bacsac-garden-containers.html Bacsac can be suspended from my front windows on the upper floor to keep deer and other predators at bay.

Another example of municipality-proof garden. It does not do much for the wildlife, but hey, it is green.

LIKE MILK IN A VESSEL, LIKE HONEY IN A JAR

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 21:26:00 -0700

"If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death Perhaps the world can teach us as when everything seems dead but later proves to be alive" — Pablo Neruda

Sometimes there must be a pause from worries, from wishing, from wanting. In the space created by that pause one becomes simply quiescent. That is where I am right now, in a space that has no room for worrying where and how to grow new trees, for the wish to rush towards great struggles, quick solutions, urgent decisions. I tried to explain this process to my nephew, whose colloquial English is not yet perfect, and he asked,
"What does it mean, 'survival mode?'"
I rell him that it means to push everything aside and concentrate on being. I am not sure that is a good explanation. The expression is so fluid I can infuse it with my own meaning and so can he. Language is imprecise and filled with ambiguity. One rarely sets everything aside for longer than a few hours. Modern life does not permit such luxuries. Obligations one takes on without any thought of future interruptions tug at one's mind--the cat must be fed, meals must be cooked, plants must be watered, messages must be answered at some point. One must sort essential matters from the non-essential. One must make minor decisions--review copies of books can e read later, the lawn will keep on being ragged for another day, the ambitious writing project can be shelved for the moment.
There are things one can do while the pause button is on--one can talk to family and friends. I speak on the phone with my daughter every day and I devote at least two hours in the evening to IM distant relatives.In between I exchange e-mail messages with neighbour and friends. Such, such is the tenor of modern times that I do see someone close to me regularly while others become electronic presences on my computer screen. It is all contact that does not disturb the stillness, rather it nourishes and protects it. Besides that, there is always music. My choice is a treasure trove of Brazilian songs that ranges from recordings of indigenous Kaapor flute players, to Afro-Brazilian ritual chants, to brand new compositions by young Brazilian musicians from various ethnicities. I find audio books good choices, as well. The website www.archives.org houses, among other data, a great collection of works that have entered the public domain. For now, since the survival mode resists intellectual demands, I choose THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL, by Baroness Orczy over A DIALOGUE CONCERNING , ORATORY, by Tacitus and I choose Trollope over Vitruvius. Ther is no stridency, no ponderous thought in thes echoic. I can just be.

Brazilians have a different way of expressing this pause button stage. They call "to lie like milk (in a vessel.)"

Americans say, to be "like honey in a jar." I find it singularly appropriate that both cultures express calm, peace, quiescence in terms of food and drink. I think they humans in most parts of the globe recognise that stress and strife are depleting while peace is nourishing. Change comes whether we wear ourselves out with fretting or whether we choose to be still and grow stronger. There is nothing new in gathering one's power quietly and carefully. Strangely, it never ceases to a be a process of discovery.

A fading August rose.

OUT OF THIS NETTLE DANGER

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 15:30:00 -0700

"..it’s also dangerous to catch a cold, to sleep, to drink. But I tell you, my lord fool, we shall pluck a flower of safety from this thorn of danger." William Shakespeare's Hotspur in HENRY IV

Dealing with trauma is an interesting process. In my case, the trauma was not physical. I have no bruises to display. Nevertheless, having one's home invaded and one's property destroyed can cause a number physical reactions. Disorientation, trembling, high pulse rate, chest pains are among other symptoms of distress. Exhaustion follows. It helps enormously that there are good people in the world and that they take the time to give generously of their time and to perform acts of extraordinary kindness.
Life goes on regardless of one's travails. Within one's circle of friends far and near, there are joys events. For example, Jerusalem welcomes a brand new beautiful girl, Mari Carys Rees sister of Cai and daughter of author Matt Beynon Rees and his wife Devorah Blachor. My friend Alex Shoumatoff gets well-deserved praise for his article on the decimation of African elephants, "Agony and Ivory" in the August 2011 issue of Vanity Fair Magazine. Elsewhere, a couple goes to lunch at a new restaurant, another spends a day at the beach, yet another rejoices in the presence of a young grandchild. Along with the sweetness of ordinary life, the world goes through convulsions-, economic quakes, grievous examples of social injustice.In Brazil drug dealers shoot unarmed Native Brazilians, in Saudi Arabia the government sanctions the beheading of an Indonesian guest worker who dared fight her abusive employers back, Syria's ratchets up the violence against protesters, there are more killings in Afghanistan and on, and on, and on.

"Hold fast," says one of the women who is helping find out how to navigate the troubled legal waters of my community. That, is the least I can do. I am deeply grateful for her kindness.

PARADISE LOST

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 13 Aug 2011 21:20:00 -0700

Click on this link to see My Lost Garden This is the garden I made. This is the place the hirelings of the municipality of Shepherdstown, West Virginia, sanctioned by the mayor and town council, invaded, on 11 August 2011 to cut my trees. They took more that twenty-five year trees. They also took away my sense of being secure in my own property. May it never happen to you.I have been working in this garden since 1989. I started planting flowers and trees before my house was built. Now it is all tainted by this act of violence and thuggery.